by Rick Wood
Cia grabbed one of their shotguns and held it, not knowing why.
She stared at the back of Ryker’s head, seething, glaring intently at the messy hair and messy lies.
“Er, Ryker,” said the guy eagerly trying to take her gun from her.
Ryker paused and turned.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“She won’t give me her gun,” said the guy.
“Course she will.”
The guy tried to take the gun again, but Cia grabbed him by the throat, squeezed, then shoved him away.
Ryker turned and strode back toward her, holding a calming hand out that did not work.
“Cia, what are you doing?”
“What is going on?” she asked, wishing her voice didn’t shake so much.
“I don’t know what you’re asking, Cia, but why don’t you just give the gun back, then we can talk about whatever it is you–”
“I think I’ll hang onto it.”
Ryker exchanged a look with the person trying to take the gun. The other people who had been out hunting paused and one of them said, “Everything okay, Ryker?”
Ryker told them it was fine, to go on, he’d catch up, but their voices were all muffled like they were under water. Cia was doing all she could to keep in her rage, knowing what that rage had done, the people who had died because of it.
She wanted to fit in here, for Boy.
She wanted to make peace, for Boy.
She knew unleashing her anger and hurting people would mean they’d have to leave. She couldn’t fight a whole town of people.
Or could she? They were hardly warriors.
But she was certain there was something going on, and she hated that everyone acted like life was perfect, like this was how things were now, like this was the true representation of life amidst the chaos.
“Give me the gun, Cia,” Ryker said, edging closer.
“Don’t come any closer,” Cia demanded. The gun rattled. She wished she could calm down but didn’t know how.
Flashes of Dalton screaming forced themselves back to her mind.
No, not again.
She couldn’t break down.
Not now.
“Cia, please, just give him the gun and then we’ll–”
“Why didn’t we kill that Maskete?”
Dalton sighed.
No! Ryker sighed.
It was Ryker, not Dalton.
She killed Dalton.
Please don’t kill Ryker…
“Cia, just give the gun–”
“Answer the question.”
“We can talk about this if–”
“All right, how about a different question. Why didn’t that Maskete kill us?”
“Cia–”
“It was next to a nest. It should have called them all to get us. But it didn’t. It made a noise that told them to stop, to back off.”
“Look–”
“Stop trying to calm me down!”
A few people working on crops turned to look at her.
Blobs filled her vision.
Her breath wheezed.
“You’ve gone red,” Ryker pointed out. “Cia, for everyone’s protection, we need the gun–”
“The Wasters were willing to chase us. But not the Masketes,..”
“Cia–”
“You stopped me from killing that Thoral too.”
“Cia, for Christ’s sake, would you just–”
“Stop telling me to calm down!”
She fell, her knees cutting against the gravel, her elbows pricking as they hit the surface.
The gun spun away from her and the guy picked it up but she didn’t look didn’t care anymore it was all just so blurry, and Dalton was there and she was stabbing him and her dad was there and he was screaming for her and everyone in the Sanctity was dead and she was fucking that guy and stabbing him as he came and watching him splurt blood out of his mouth as he shot inside of her and that is what life is now that is what life is what it–
“Get the doctor!”
Was that Ryker’s voice?
She felt a hand on her back.
Was that Ryker’s?
“Let’s get you to the hospital wing,” she heard him say.
“No!” She was not prepared to have strangers poking around at her while they sedated her. “Get me home!”
Home.
Was it her home?
That cottage would be her home.
It looked perfect until it didn’t.
Until she killed Dalton in the garden.
Listened to the Masketes tear his screaming body apart as Boy comforted her.
“We really should get you–”
“No! To my bed, then—then—leave me alone!”
A gap of silence, then Dalton—no, Ryker—said, “Fine.”
He helped her to her feet, but she became top heavy and walked back into the floor.
Oh, God, Dalton.
Dalton.
That kiss they shared, so much better than the second.
What did I do to you…
“I don’t know if your home is–”
“Get me home!”
Her father looking at her.
Staring.
Watching as his only daughter trapped him with the monsters and watched them tear him apart.
Watched him die.
No, not just die.
Suffer in pain.
Suffer until there was no more suffering.
She brought herself to her feet again.
“Get me to my bed,” she demanded, though she wasn’t sure if the words came out well enough to be heard, as she fell and passed out as she was saying them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Cia awoke it was still light—but that kind of amber light that only comes in a summer evening. It shone through the window in a way that made her head throb.
A glass of water sat on the cabinet beside her bed.
She took it, too thirsty to care what they have put in it, and drank it all down in one go.
She looked around.
Just as she had instructed, she was back home.
But there was a woman in there with her.
“Who are you?” she grunted.
The woman smiled as if Cia hadn’t just spoken rudely.
“My name is Shan,” she said, her voice as bouncy as her ponytail. “I am your nurse.”
She must have been in her mid-twenties. Pretty, but not obviously so. Wearing a lab coat, as if that gave her authority.
“You took quite the fall,” Shan said. “Have these episodes been happening much?”
“What episodes?”
She sat up, looked around, checking the room was the same, as if it wouldn’t be.
“You collapsed after shaking and sweating. You came in and out of it, saying some strange things. Do you not know what this is?”
Cia shrugged. “Just something that happens.”
“You had a panic attack, Cia,” Shan said. “I imagine it’s from some kind of post-traumatic stress related to your experiences out there. I assume it must have been quite upsetting.”
Cia snorted.
“Quite upsetting?” She shook her head. “What is wrong with you people? Don’t even know what upsetting is.”
She turned and sat up.
Then she remembered the one thing she should have remembered the moment she woke up, but she’d let her defences down, let herself become too relaxed.
Boy.
She went to get up.
“I’d have some bed rest if I were you,” Shan said, trying to push her back down.
Cia batted her arm away.
“You’re not me.”
“Really, you may have a concussion.”
“I’ll survive a little headache, thanks.”
She pushed Shan out of the way and stood.
“At least take these pills,” Shan said, taking Cia’s hand and placing some pills into her palm.
“What
are they?”
“Two paracetamols for the headache, and sertraline for the anxiety.”
Whatever.
She swallowed them. If it got this woman out the way, then fine.
“Where’s Boy?” Cia demanded.
“Excuse me?”
Cia felt a flutter of rage.
“Boy? Where is he?”
“Your friend? I believe he’s next door.”
Cia marched to the stairs.
“Cia,” Shan called. “I’ll be back to check tomorrow–”
“Don’t bother.”
Cia rushed out of the house. She sprinted next door, then halted, seeing that she needn’t have worried.
There Graham was, sat on the porch with a glass of wine, Boy on the chair next to him rearranging his dinosaurs.
Cia halted, bending over and willing her heavy breathing to subside. She hadn’t realised how much she was panting.
“Rosy!” Boy said.
She rushed over to him and stroked his hair back.
“Is everything okay?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
Boy nodded eagerly. “Graham had some more dinosaurs. Look, it’s a Parasaurolophus.”
Cia had no idea what that was, but she was happy Boy was happy.
She turned to Graham, who just smiled back at her.
“Thank you,” she said unexpectedly.
“You’re welcome,” Graham replied. “We’ve had quite a day. He went up to see you when you were brought home, and I said I’d take care of him while you were asleep. I hope that’s okay?”
Cia sat, still panting.
“Of course.”
She was suddenly so grateful that she wanted to do something to show how grateful she was. She had nothing to offer however, so she made do with another, “Thank you.”
“Really, you don’t have to thank me.”
She looked to Boy, happily turning the pages of his book to help him identify another dinosaur.
“You know,” Graham said, lowering his voice so Boy didn’t hear. “Before all this happened, and before I retired, I was a teacher. I specialised in helping teenagers with learning problems and worked with quite a few autistic students.”
“Oh yeah?”
“If you would like me to—and, again, only if you would like me too—I’d be happy to do some work with him.”
“Like what?”
“For example, teaching him how to interact with others, ways to understand and manage his anxiety, how to interact socially. Things that we all take for granted.”
Cia felt like crying.
She didn’t let herself, not wanting to shed any tears in front of anyone.
A surge of affection and gratitude made her want to thank him profusely—but she couldn’t form the words. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad.
“That would be amazing,” she said, and he smiled, and they watched the sun go down together before she decided it was time for Boy to go to bed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seeing it was such a lovely morning, Arnold took one of his occasional forays into the community. He didn’t particularly like to interact, but it was the important job of a politician to meet the people and pretend, for a short period, that you are one of them.
But he would never be one of them.
Yes, money meant little anymore—but it had already bought him enough power that these people recognised his authority.
They were all his little workers, doing his bidding, making the place function.
And all of them hoping that they weren’t next for the event.
But the subjects had already been chosen, so they all scurried around with an air of relaxation that said we are safe.
For now.
“We need to talk,” came that all-to-familiar voice from beside him. He didn’t need to turn around to identify its owner. He carried on walking, his hands behind his back, strolling with stubborn authority.
“What is it?”
“It’s Cia,” answered Ryker.
“The girl?”
“Yes, the girl.”
“What of her now?”
“She—she’s asking a lot of questions.”
“And?”
“And, well, I’m not sure about how to give her answers.”
Arnold sighed a long, drawn-out sigh.
This was Ryker’s purpose, to deal with things like this. Why must Arnold lower his hands to the mud when he should be able to just step over it?
“Maybe it’s time to come clean,” Ryker suggested. “Everyone else came to terms with it, eventually. They understand it’s how our society survives. Maybe she would to.”
“Do you believe that to be the case?”
Ryker didn’t answer, but his face said all that needed to be said.
“We will have to tell her eventually,” Ryker admitted. “Won’t we?”
“Ryker, I leave the judgement in your hands.”
“Okay, so what if I tell her, and what if she doesn’t react well?”
“You know where the guns are.”
“Would the people not–”
Arnold halted, turned to Ryker, and peered intently into his perplexed face.
“The people do as I damn well wish them to. This is not a democracy, this is a dictatorship, and I have dictated you to deal with the matter. If you really can’t do it yourself, get someone to do it for you. Get her to see Christoph, he is well-trained in developing trust with reprobates. Use him.”
Ryker nodded. Another problem solved by Arnold that should have solved by someone else.
He contemplated walking through more of the community, but it was hot, and he’d had enough. The whiskey was waiting for him, as was a nice fan that would keep him cool.
“There’s another thing,” Ryker said.
“What now?” snapped Arnold.
“There were some Wasters. They seemed angry; we don’t know what they will do.”
“Well then, I will be sure to lock my doors tonight, and you will be sure to have the relevant people on standby.”
Ryker nodded. “Right you are.”
Arnold faked a smile and turned back to his office, where he wouldn’t have to face any more of these pointless conversations.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cia never slept heavily. Even now, as she lay in a snug bed in a safe home, a simple bird call or someone shuffling past in the street below would momentarily stir her from her sleep. She wasn’t always consciously aware of it, but her body was poised, ready for trouble.
So one can imagine how quickly she leapt from her bed when an ear-piercing scream startled her awake.
She stumbled to the floor, from deeply asleep to urgently alert in seconds. She made her way to the window, opened the curtains, and looked to the ground below.
She registered the sound of more screams before she registered the blood. A woman lay on her back while something fed on her guts, pulling them out and forcing her to watch her own agony before she died.
It was a Waster.
She looked across the street to the entrance, where the doors were marginally open, possibly having welcomed someone back from hunting or whatever they may have been doing—only to have Wasters force their way in.
There was more than just one, or two, or three even.
There were a dozen. Maybe even a few dozen. All bursting in and spreading like water breaking down a dam.
She looked back to the one feeding on a dying woman below her; the woman of which, it appeared, had finally finished dying.
The Waster feeding on her body paused.
Looked up at Cia.
They locked eye contact.
The moment their eyes met she knew it was a mistake.
It ran toward their home. It left her sight, but she didn’t need to see it to know where it was; the house shook as it threw its body repeatedly against the front door.
The door wouldn’t hold for long.
Just as she went to retract back into her room, sh
e noticed another Waster doing the same to the house next to hers.
Graham…
Her priority was Boy.
Then she would help Graham.
She sprinted from her room to his, every thud prompting another pulse of her headache.
“Boy!” she shouted, but he was already awake, and he was already covering his ears and shaking his head.
She grabbed his arms, and he tried to continue shutting the world out, but she didn’t have time, so she pulled him from his bed.
“Help me,” she instructed, taking one end of the bed and pulling it.
He just looked at her quizzically.
“Do it!”
Reluctantly, and much to Cia’s appreciation, he chose not to argue. He helped Cia pull the bed up to the door.
Cia paused when it was a step away and opened the wardrobe door.
“When I leave this room, I need you to do two things for me, do you understand?”
He looked alarmed. She could see him processing fear, could see him realising this was the voice she only used when they were in danger. If she could talk to him quickly enough, she could hopefully get through to him before he broke down.
“Answer me!”
He nodded.
“Push the bed against the wall, then get into the wardrobe, and do not open the wardrobe door until you hear me calling. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Repeat it to me.”
“Push the bed against the door,” he replied, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Get in the wardrobe. But why?”
“Do you trust me?”
He nodded.
“Then you will do it. And when you push, push with all your might. Okay?”
He nodded.
Downstairs, she heard the front door thwack against the inside wall.
The Waster was in.
She stepped outside the room and closed the door. She waited a moment to listen to him moving the bed, so she knew he was carrying out her instructions. Then, she left his room, fetched a chair, and slammed it down upon the door handle.
It did nothing.
This did not deter her. Powered by the extra strength adrenaline afforded her, she continued to batter against the door handle with the chair, again and again and again, until eventually, after numerous strikes, the door handle struck off.
She retreated to her bedroom, to her pillow, and took the knife from beneath it. She kept the door to her room open but hid behind it.
